


doing, a filthy pleasure

by Young John Silver (quodpersortem)



Series: The Fucking Cabin 'Verse [1]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Merry Month of Masturbation Challenge 2016, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, fantasies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-09 22:14:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6925426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quodpersortem/pseuds/Young%20John%20Silver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Shame rolls in the pit of his stomach, that he should be doing this—but being around Flint has messed with his senses in a way that he can’t resolve in any other way. Or he could, in his own hammock, but John yearns for some more privacy than that.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	doing, a filthy pleasure

**Author's Note:**

> the title comes from the likewise titled poem by gaius petronius ([x](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poems/detail/50511))

Flint usually leaves his cabin unguarded when he is on shore for less than a day, John has found.

He trusts his crew enough—or at least tries to show the crew that he does—to leave access to anyone who should want to enter the space. Of course, there are men on board that guard the ship so nobody from outside will be able to enter, but John—

Today, John simply can’t resist this temptation.

And okay, technically now that he is the Quartermaster he has access to Flint’s cabin, but not for matters like these.

Shame rolls in the pit of his stomach, that he should be doing this—but being around Flint has messed with his senses in a way that he can’t resolve in any other way. Or he could, in his own hammock, but John yearns for some more privacy than that.

And perhaps, something else as well. Comfort. Time. A scent surrounding him that is wholly unlike the sweaty stink of the forecastle—and yet, not. It’s wood and ocean, paper and ink and Flint.

He doesn’t bolt the door. It’s a deliberate choice, sending a thrill through his stomach as he makes his way up to Flint’s desk. The chair is well-used, comfortable and wide enough that he can sit down and spread his thighs.

Tension has been building in his body for weeks now—longer than that, perhaps. John can’t quite put his finger on when this whole thing started, the way he yearns to keep looking at Flint, the manner in which his stomach threatens to upend itself whenever he makes the captain laugh. How his body responds even to only Flint’s scent nowadays, familiar and comforting.

That, and arousing.

Yesterday morning when he walked into the cabin to talk about the needed provisions, Flint had been mid-wash. His shirt was off, and John’s heart had started to pump harder. Even remembering it now, the urge to put his hands on Flint’s skin, is enough to let the heat in his groin spread.

He touches himself tentatively, through the fabric of his breeches. They had been Flint’s, he thinks—softer, richer material than he was used to before, a little too wide on his hips so they need to be held up with a belt.

His cock is hardening, but John avoids touching it for now. Instead he trails his fingertips over his thighs, closes his eyes and imagines that this is Flint, that he is up on two legs with Flint pressed to his back, his breath hot on John’s neck—with his free hand, he traces the area he imagines Flint would touch with his lips.

And then, just as suddenly, he wonders if this is the chair in which Flint himself sits when pleasuring himself. If he has spilled his seed over the floor in between John’s legs, if his bare arse touched the leather or if he throws a blanket or a coat over the seat.

With a shaking hand, he reaches for the top drawer of the desk. Because maybe, maybe.  
There is nothing inside beyond the logbook, several jars of ink, a couple of pencils.

The second drawer holds little more, just a few empty logbooks for future use; a scarf which Silver supposes may have belonged to Miranda. Perhaps it even was Thomas’s.

Although—it may have neither’s. Instead of coming across the floor, Flint may use this scarf to clean himself up. John squeezes his dick while touching the silk with his other hand, thinks about how wonderful Flint would look bare naked with the scarf wrapped around his cock, desperately fucking into it.

His own cock spills out a few droplets of moisture, slicking the inside of his breeches. John suppresses the groan that threatens to bubble up, sweat prickling along the back of his neck.  
Closing the drawer, he takes off his coat and belt. He unlaces his breeches ever so carefully, enjoying the feather light touches as the tips of his fingers and his clothes rub against the sensitive head of his hard-on.

When he finally pulls his erection out, he has to force himself to take several deep breaths. Nature tempts him to close a firm fist around his dick, to get off in few strokes as possible. That’s not what he wants, however.

Instead he reaches down for the final drawer. He supposes that if Flint were to keep anything, it should be in here; there is not enough space for personal items by the bedside.

Inside, he finds more papers and a couple of ink-rags. Before he allows himself to feel disappointed, he pushes these aside and promptly finds what he was looking for.

It’s a little glass vial, of Italian making so it seems. Inside, pale gold liquid that is most likely olive oil—one cursory sniff proves it. It’s half-full and there are a couple of fingerprints in oil smudged across the label.

He pours a little oil into the palm of his hand, then very gently slicks the head of his cock with it. His leg jerks at the feeling, and he’s unable to keep his eyes open. It feels like relief, this first sweet touch almost better than the orgasm his body is begging for.

The feeling of doing something he should not be doing—the lingering threat of someone walking in on him—just exacerbates the heat streaming through his limbs.

His cock is hot in his hand, and John squeezes gently before he pulls his foreskin down, spreading the oil further. He has to bite down on his lower lip and squeeze the armrest of the chair to stay quiet as he watches himself, little bubbles of slick pushing up from the slit when he brings his hand up again.

It’s not hard to imagine Flint walking in on him, the way he would say, “What the fuck are you doing?”

And by god, how John feels when he thinks of that, of Flint’s eyes on him while he has his cock in his hand to pleasure himself—it is almost too much, but he knows that if he staves off his climax as long as possible it will be better.

He squeezes his fingers tight around the base, hard enough to pull a little at the coarse hairs and send prickles of pain through his groin. John stutters out a groan, unable to bite it back this time around.

John takes several minutes before he starts up again, waiting until the pleasure starts to ebb away and his breathing returns to something more normal. In the meantime, he looks around the room, wondering if he should make the trek to the bed until he decides that would be too personal, a breach of privacy upon his captain that he is not willing to make.

Finally, he allows himself slow and languid pulls, from the base all the way up and keeping his hand folded around the head, keeping it there several counts before he strokes back down. His hand is growing wetter with the liquid pulsing from his cock, a testament to exactly how turned on he is.His body feels on fire, wrung tight and becoming tighter still with each touch.

While taking another break, sitting hunched over in his chair and trying to keep his hips from bucking up into the air, John imagines what Flint would be doing—if he gets off at once, or if he draws things out since he has the space for privacy.

This time, his cock twitches hard when he curls his fingers around it again, as though it is a prelude to his nearing climax.

He is teetering on the edge as he finally allows more images of Flint to rush through his mind—remembers the soft swell of his pale arse that he saw once and wonders what it would be like to fuck him, bent over the desk. Or to have Flint fuck him instead, fingering him open with the very same oil John has on his fingers.

He slips his free hand between his legs, pressing against his balls before rolling them between his fingers. The oil has slipped down, making the movements easier;he’s so warm he can feel his pulse in the tips of his fingers, smell the scent of sex in the air.

With a gasp, John braces himself against the back of the chair, his hips pistoning up into his hands on their own volition. He has his foot flat on the floor, the edge of the chair digging into both of his thighs as he looks down at himself again.

He moans when he starts to climax, his dick twitching hard enough that he momentarily can’t breathe because it feels so good. His seed is dripping down his fist as he pulls himself through it, forcing himself to near-pain as he rubs his thumb against the slit to send more shivers through his body; to feel himself spill against his already overheated skin.

It feels like it’s going on forever, his body entirely too hot and reduced to just that—a mass of flames and pleasure—before he finally relearns how to breathe.

By then, there’s a wet spot on the chair, smeared under his thighs due to his frantic thrusting just earlier. John can feel his cheeks and chest still burn, and slowly pulls his hands away—strings of semen snap, not unlike the slime that came from the eels.

Now that he has come, John feels disgusting and he fishes one of the ink-rags from the drawer.

Cleaning up is quick and efficient, years of experience having taught him the right way to go about it.

Faint traces linger on Flint’s chair, but even after he has pulled up his breeches, it’s impossible to wash the remnants off the leather.

Instead, John sets to hoping Flint will not notice. His breeches are a little stained as well, sticking to his legs in places as he gets up and uses unsteady knees to make his way outside again.

If the other men notice anything odd in John’s gait, they do not say. It is more than likely that they will write it off as being his iron leg, or possibly even a return of the fever he suffered on the maroon island.

However, it all pays off when for the first time in weeks he is able to look into Flint’s eyes and not think of having sex with the man.

That is, until Flint sits down in the goddamn chair, and John realises quite how grave of a mistake he made. He never should have used that chair. Fuck.


End file.
